


Baby Driver

by verymetalbasterd



Category: Baby Driver (2017), My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, gerard is called baby, its Not Really. its for Effect, jimmy urine's codename is Piss and thats fuckin funny, mikey is deaf, ray is a fuckin crime boss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 13:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12749718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymetalbasterd/pseuds/verymetalbasterd
Summary: Baby is a getaway driver in Belleville, New Jersey. When he was a child, a car accident killed his parents and left him with tinnitus, which he blocks out by listening to music on iPods.





	1. Blues Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh basically Gerard is Baby  
> Frank is Debra  
> Bob is Griff  
> Jimmy Urine is Piss (who is Buddy)  
> Chantal is Pretty (who is Darling)  
> Bert is Batz yadayadayada 
> 
> Disclaimer: I basically used the script as a base for the fic

It’s still early, the air is crisp and the streets are only just getting busy. People make their way to and from the bank, cashing cheques and depositing money. A shiny red Honda Civic car slowly pulls over across the road from the bank, under a traffic notice which reads ‘Short Stay. 5 Mins Only.’

The driver presses play on an iPod Classic. A rock track starts up. It’s very loud. It’s awesome. 

‘Bellbottoms’ by the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion blasts through the drivers’ earphones.  
The driver is young, baby faced, long black hair which hangs in his face and curls and the ends. He wears mostly black and sports cheap gas station shades.

This is Baby.

His eyes aren't visible, but his blank expression seems pretty stoic. He listens to the track, stares out the windshield.  
Accompanying him in the car, a beefy mid-30s tough guy in shotgun. This is Bob. He, too wears shades along with black business clothes.  
Seated behind Baby, another black clad gentleman, probably mid-40s. He’s handsome, but looks like he parties too hard. This is Piss.  
Beside Piss, the last shades wearing black clad passenger, a younger lady, early 20s, with her hair up. This is Pretty. There’s a hint of trash beneath her business clothes. 

Suddenly, as Baby’s song hits crescendo, Bob flings his door wide open. The door chimes are in time with the song. Choppy strings play against guitar riffs as Bob gets out. We see a shotgun partially concealed in his trench coat. Piss and Pretty get out. They are also armed.  
Bob pops the trunk, grabs two duffels, and hands one to Pretty. They’re all wearing sneakers. They walk away from the car in sync with the track. Again. It’s awesome.

Instead of keeping up with the armed black-clad trio, we’ll focus on Baby, our young driver. His hands fixed on the wheel at ten to two, watching his colleagues disappearing inside the bank. 

The song pauses for two bars. When it kicks back in, our driver suddenly drops the strong, silent tough guy act and comes to glorious, joyous life, nodding his head and swaying in his seat. He mouths the vocals. A slave to the rhythm. He doesn’t miss a beat.  
It’s cool, but he’s also like a big kid in front of his bedroom mirror, it’s quite embarrassing.

As he drums on the dash, we see shoppers pass, other cars cruise by. Baby is so immersed in the track, he flicks on the wipers. They swipe across the dry glass in perfect sync to the song. A mother with a stroller passes and the infant inside notices Baby rocking out in his car.  
Baby waves. The infant smiles. Then he instinctively looks in his rear view, seeing a black and white police cruiser, sirens blaring, races up the street behind. 

Baby turns to watch the police car drive up and past. A pause in the music. The police car doesn’t return. An urgent bass line. 

Baby looks to the bank. His goofy chair dance is over. Suddenly he’s stone faced and all business again, the police car alerting his senses.  
Over distorted guitars, our driver watches through the partially frosted windows of the bank. He sees his colleagues ordering staff to hit the floor.  
Glimpses of scared faces, the brandishing of weapons. 

The song reaches an interlude; a vocal comes in and Baby lip syncs every word as his eyes stay fixed on the bank, “Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.” Jon Spencer vocalises as Baby mouths.  
A snare hits in song. An alarm sounds from the bank. Baby steels himself. Military snares build like staccato machine gun fire. 

His colleagues explode out of the bank, two bags full. Baby revs in time with the snares as his colleagues get in, seated in the same places they were before. Bob lays his shotgun across his lap and points forward, the direction they are expected to go.  
Baby pops the car into reverse and stomps the gas, hard.  
Bob turns toward Baby, a confused expression upon his face. Snare drums crescendo. The car screams back through the tight spaces between parked cars, makes a tight Rockford to face forward, opposite the way they were initially facing. Baby drops into drive.

Baby’s car sails into busy traffic, the track blasting loudly in his ears, building in speed and energy. Despite the velocity of the getaway, the driver is calm at the wheel, weaving through traffic like an android.  
The other gang members lay low in their seats, shrug out of their business attire. They trade looks as Baby swerves. 

Sirens loud around them, a police cruiser screams the opposite way. It zooms past, then makes a 180 behind them. Baby sees the cruiser behind. A light turns red ahead. He floors it through the stop light.  
Other drivers break hard around him. Cars crash, rear end in time with kick drum hits. 

The police cruiser flies through the intersection, gaining. Baby nears 70 mph, the track building with cracking snares. The lone cruiser still dogs behind. Sirens wailing. Baby HITS 70 mph. Then 80.  
Coming up to an intersection he eases off, making a hard right at the last second into a side street. He loses the tailing cop car and he tears down the narrow street, dodging dumpsters. On the adjacent artery, the police cruiser can be seen in parallel. 

The driver floors it to the next cross street and swerves a hard left, directly into the path of the other car pursuing. Baby ploughs through this intersection, forcing the cruiser and all other traffic to brake violently. 

The Honda Civic leaves the cop car in the dust and tears down another straight with less traffic. Baby holds the gas down. Seeing something, he brakes suddenly, pulling hard on the wheel, accelerates through a 180 skid, roars in back the other direction with three cruisers now on his tail. Red and Blues. Sirens. 

Facing the original cruiser, he crosses the double line, tears past oncoming traffic and disappears up a freeway ramp. 

No one saw that turn coming but Baby. 

The cruisers are left behind as he revs past the green light and into aggressive morning traffic. 85mph... 90. 

Highly distorted guitar blasts as the arrival of a police helicopter alerts Baby. It dogs above, but has to play find-the-lady with at least three red Honda Civics currently southbound. 

Baby weaves from lane to lane. As he disappears under a bridge, he crosses to the shoulder and barrels along it at a crazy speed, swapping positions with one of the other Hondas. Honking like crazy, the other driver flips him off, but Baby takes no notice as hw blows through another intersection. Disappearing down an alley, weaving these back routes like a savant. 

As sirens and choppers’ blades ebb away a little, Baby eases it down, a rising bass riff signals a sneaking approach. He slows to see if any cruisers cross by ahead. One police cruiser glides by, sirens off.  
Baby waits on the bass riff again.  
He then floors it when the coast’s clear. And suddenly - They pull into a covered parking lot underneath a quiet shopping complex and pull up next to a green Toyota Corolla. 

And like that, the gang leap out of the Civic and into the switch car, money and guns covered up.  
The gang swap places. Bob and Piss in the back. Baby shotgun as Pretty drives. She lets her hair down, pulling on a colorful sweater. 

Baby closes his eyes, pretends to be asleep as Pretty roars into the white of morning and the Blues Explosion echoes out. And the first musical number is over. 

That was something.


	2. Stolen Sunglasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby sees a handsome boy on his coffee run, and Bob has some issues with Baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use of the r-slur in this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Im using the script as a base for the fic.

Our hero, Baby, appears from a door in the mirrored exterior of a non-descript business building.

He has his iPod earphones firmly in, his shades on and his bubble of sound around him. Again, he’s clearly a big kid when away from the gang, lost in his music.

He strolls down the street listening to ‘ _Harlem Shuffle_ ’. The song is as funky as the business district is not.

Office workers stride to work, while Baby struts along like Tony Manero. He walks against the traffic, the world syncing around him: a chorus of car honks, cell phones and barking canines.

Baby uses a crosswalk, the bleeps and his steps all in time. He reaches the other side of the street and breezes into Starbucks. Baby takes one earbud out, orders from a young barista.

“Can I get your order sir?” She asks him, he counts out four fingers,

“One black coffee. One black coffee. One black coffee. And one coffee, black.” He smiles at the barista, who looks at him quizzically.

“So, four black coffees?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Size?”

“Middle one."

“Four grande black coffees. Name?”

“Baby.” He responds confidently.

“Your name is _‘Baby’_?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“B-A-B-Y.” He spells out, “Baby.”

Baby puts his second earbud back in as the coffee machine screams into life and the barista begins making his coffees. Baby looks around the Starbucks, sees other young people of his age, smiling and chatting, enjoying their carefree lives. Their actions are magically in time with his personal soundtrack.

Baby looks out through the window, sees a handsome, tattoo covered man walking past. He, too, is wearing earphones and lost in his own music.

For a beautiful moment, this boy and the whole damn city is alive and all in step with the music in Baby’s head. All except a cop who he can see strolling outside the shop who is the only person not walking on beat.

The boy disappears. The cop lingers lingers. Baby grabs his coffee tray. Splits.

Baby passes the cop, only doing a subtle strut in time. His swagger returns as he approaches the building from where he came. He sees police cars reflected in the glass of the building. Baby hears their sirens and watches as they pass.

As the song fades, Baby opens the door with his elbow, stops it with his foot, all while switching the coffee tray from one hand to the other. He then pirouettes into the open door. He is the Gene Kelly of the coffee run.

Baby enters the room where the criminals he worked with today are all seated around a large grey table, the gang are in a garment warehouse space with some vintage sewing desks. On the large table in the middle, Ray, an older, curly-haired, very well-dressed man, counts out the day’s haul from the bank. There’s a large chalkboard behind Ray, which displays a visual guide for their raid earlier in the day.

Coffee is drunk. Cash split. Pretty fixes herself up, or down, you could say, now looking trashier than before. Piss sits next to her and sips his coffee quietly. Baby sits at the back of class, earphones in and shades still on. The goofy kid has disappeared, the stoic, poker faced Baby has returned. The beefy guy, Bob, glowers at him.

“What’s his deal?” He points to the younger man, Baby.

Ray furrows his brow, “Baby? Full cut. Same as everyone.” Ray is brusque, and seems irritated at answering any questions.

Bob sighs, “No I mean, is he retarded?”

Ray looks up from counting the cash, “Retarded means slow. Was he slow?”

“No.” Bob responds quickly.

“Then he don’t sound retarded to me.” Ray smiles for a second. Then resumes counting.

Bob hums, “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with him not saying anything.”

“There’s nothing wrong with some quiet.” Ray grows impatient.

“I’m just saying it weirds me -” Before Bob can finish his sentence, Ray makes a zip-it motion and speaks over him.

“Hey! I’m going to lose count.” He looks back down at the cash in his hand and continues counting.

Bob swaggers over to Baby, who taps his fingers on the table to ‘ _Egyptian Reggae_ ’, which is playing on his iPod. Bob observes for a while, then holds down his tapping hand.

Baby slowly takes his hand away. Now tapping his feet in time.

“What you listening to?” The beefy man asks. No answer. He takes out one of Baby’s earphones.

“What are you listening to Baby?” No answer. He doesn’t even bat an eye. Bob looks at Baby’s iPod. Drops it with a scoff.

“You think you’re pretty smart acting dumb, that it?” Bob asks.

Piss decides to pipe up, “Leave the kid alone, Bob.”

“I just wanna know what’s going in his head.” He cracks a knuckle, “Aside from ‘ _Egyptian Reggae_ ’.”

Pretty, who is half listening, speaks. “Love reggae.”

“What does it matter to you?” Piss asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“I think he thinks he’s better than us, Piss. Wants to keep his white shirt clean while we plays dirty.” Bob snatches off Baby’s shades. We see Baby’s golden green eyes for the first time. He looks so fresh faced, so young. “It don’t work like that. Someday you’ll get blood on your hands and find out it don’t wash off in the _fucking_ sink!”

“Bob!” Pretty exclaims. Baby pulls another pair of shades from his jacket pocket and puts them on, these ones are red.

“Hey, Pretty! He wants to hang with the older kids, he’s going to hear some grown up words. Like ‘fuck’.” Bob does a ‘boo’ scare on Baby. He doesn’t flinch. He snatches the new pair of shades from Baby’s face, throwing them aside. Baby still doesn’t move.

“Will you cut it out!” Ray pipes up this time.

“Yeah, he did his job, let him be.” Piss joins in.

“Hey, I ain’t saying he’s not great.” While Bob speaks, Baby is putting another pair of sunglasses, olive green ones this time. “Boy’s a star, right?” He scowls at Baby’s new shades, and takes them for the third time.

Ray puts Baby’s cut in a holdall and brings it over to his desk. “Would I vouch for him if he wasn’t?” Ray asks and leaves to go to the bathroom.

Bob shouts after him, “Hey I’m just checking he’s gonna be okay out in the world! You know, since he’s the only one in here not packing.” Smiling, Bob takes out his revolver, puts it on the desk. Baby looks at the revolver, but doesn’t show any emotion. “Take it. There’s bad people around.”

“Speak for yourself.” Piss mumbles.

“Don’t want it? Say I took your share, walked out? How you gonna stop me? I wanna see you stop me.” Bob eggs him on. Pretty and Piss exchange glances as Bob playfully swipes Baby’s holdall and walks slowly away towards the door. “C’mon. Don’t let me get away!”

Baby looks at Bob, then the revolver. Bob laughs. “Do it Baby. I’m a real bad guy.” Baby looks up at the ceiling. Bob is insulted. “Okay. Enough games.”

Bob huffs, reluctantly puts the money back in the holdall. Baby quietly puts another pair of shades on again. Ray appears in the doorway. Nobody knows how long he’s been standing there.

Piss laughs, “I figured out why you call him Baby. Still waiting for his first words.”

 

 

Baby travels with Bob, Pretty, Piss and Ray in a packed elevator, it’s packed, but it’s just the five of them. ‘ _Secondo Intermezzo Pop_ ’ by Ennio Morricone plays through Baby’s earbuds.

All five of them clutch holdalls. Pretty is all over Buddy. Smooching and laughing. The other three are mildly uncomfortable.

Well isn’t this quite the squeeze?” Pretty laughs.

Piss responds, “I think you’re quite the squeeze.”

Bob, again, eyeballs Baby who has shades back on, headphones in.

“You still mad-dogging me boy?” Bob turns his chin up at Baby.

Ray snaps, “Jesus. _You’re_  mad dogging _him._ ” Pretty and Piss sigh, tired of this shit.

“Yeah, where do you get off?” Piss asks.

“Kid’s gotta grow up sometime.” Bob responds.

“Seriously. Where do you get off?”

 

PING.

 

The lift hits Platform 1.

“Right here.” Bob makes a move, looking to Ray. “Okay folks, if you don’t hear from me. It’s because I’m dead.”

Bob exits the elevator. He’s never seen again.

The doors close and Pretty laughs at the release of tension. The lift descends. Piss and Pretty kiss again.

“Hey, what’s that song?” Pretty asks, and sings, “Love in an elevator.”

Piss laughs, “That would be _‘Love In An Elevator’_ ”

“Riiight.” She smiles.

 

PING.

 

The elevator hits Platform 2. Piss salutes Ray.

“Sir, I will call you as soon as the nose bag is empty.” Piss grins.

Ray sighs, “Get a better codename, Urine.”

Piss punches Baby’s arm playfully. “And you? You did great.” The older man says, “You aced it. You’re one of the good guys.”

The couple exit. Piss shouts back to Baby as the doors close. “He calls you again, don’t pick up!” And with that, the elevator descends.

Ray smiles tersely. “Don’t listen to him.” Baby nods.

 

PING.

 

Baby and Ray exit into a cavernous parking lot. They walk over to Ray’s shiny black Mercedes. He opens the trunk. “Now you know I don’t like taking candy from Baby, but…”

Ray holds out his hand and Baby gives him his holdall. Ray takes out one stack of bills and throws both bags in the trunk. “Didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the gang. When we’re square we’ll work out a new deal. Deal?

Baby nods.

Ray gives Baby the one stack of bills and gets into his car. “Don’t go crazy with that. I want you back behind the wheel and soon. I’ll call you.” Ray pulls out and drives off, leaving Baby all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> Stay tuned for Chapter 3 & feel free to leave feedback!!


	3. Diner Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby takes a trip to a Diner where he sees the tattooed man again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knock knock, It's Mikey and Frank

Arriving at his home, Baby listens to ‘ _Nutrocker_ ’ by _B. Bumble And The Stingers_.

A piano bangs out a funereal intro. His place is a dilapidated red brick apartment building complete with a rusty fire escape. It’s a stone’s throw from a park. Judging by some of the boarded up windows, literally a stone’s throw.

The song becomes a rendition of _March Of The Wooden Soldiers_ , Baby flicks the stack of cash in time with the piano. Without his shades, Baby again looks less the badass, more the big kid. Young, of indeterminate age. Handsome, but cute.

As the track vamps, Baby puts the money away, under a loose floorboard where an amount of dollar bills are stashed. Baby replaces the board and stands, taking in the view of his quarters.

Pretty basic. Tiny kitchenette. Small bathroom and bedroom. In the center, a dining table and single chair. As ‘ _Nutrocker_ ’ blossoms into a jazzy version of _Tchaikovsky_ , Baby mimes the keyboards on the table. Pounding out the tune with his fingers.

There are iPods on the counter, table and floor. There must be close to 70 devices from different years, different colors, different models, seemingly from different owners. There isn’t a computer in the room. Just the odd charger. Battered travel speakers. A cassette deck. Audio tapes. A vinyl player. LPs. CD players, Walkmans. Dictaphones and many other recorders. A treasure trove of music systems and physical media.

While there is a tremendous amount of equipment, it’s ordered in a way that makes sense to Baby. Very precisely laid out. Baby is now jiving around the room to ‘Nutrocker’. He even pops some pills to the tune. It’s anticonvulsant medication for tinnitus and epilepsy.

It’s clear that music is an obsession as Baby dances like no-one’s watching. As he moves to the other side of the room he notices a man in pajamas and robe, sitting in a wheelchair. He’s half-asleep, watching TV, his glasses falling down his nose, and his lanky arms crossed over his chest. He's not much younger than Baby. 

Baby sees a News report on a ‘Valley Bank Robber - ’. _CLICK._

Baby switches it off. He wakes the man in the wheelchair and communicates the following in sign language.

_¬You okay, Mikey?¬_

The man shrugs, _¬I’m hungry.¬_

 _¬You want the same?¬_ Baby asks.

Mikey nods, giving a small smile.

As drums shuffle and the piano starts a descending octave, Baby makes a sliced white bread and peanut butter sandwich. He makes sure to spread the butter to the edges and cuts it into four smaller slices. Every action has a flourish to it. The song ends as it began, with jolly ceremony.

Baby serves the sandwich on bended knee, as if it were a royal platter. Mikey beams, a twinkle in his eye, pushing his glasses up, he accepts the plate. In the corner sits one of those deaf friendly phones where a red light flashes when a call is incoming.

It is not flashing.

 

*

 

Later on, Baby sits alone. Mikey is asleep in his chair. Baby absent mindedly flicks through kids’ TV channels.

Flip to Alfala from ‘ _The Little Rascals_ ’ singing - “You are so beautiful.”

Flip to Donkey and several baby donkeys in ‘ _Shrek The 3rd_ ’- “They grow up so fast.”

Flip to Sully and Mike in ‘ _Monsters Inc_ ’- “You and I are a team. Nothing is more important than our friendship.”

 

*

 

Even later on, Baby still sits alone. Mikey now cannot be seen. He holds an outmoded Sony handheld cassette recorder. He plays back the audio for the job he had earlier in the day. A badly recorded ‘ _Bellbottoms_ ’ and all the sounds of the car can be heard.

The deaf-friendly phone sits in the corner. Still nothing.

Baby plays around with the cassette recorder some and he listens as some voices come through.

“ _Was he slow?_ ” Ray’s voice asks from the tape.

“ _No._ ” Bob replies.

_VEEEEEP._

Baby rewinds this. Listens again.

 

*

 

He doesn’t know what time it is, but Baby hasn’t slept. He stares at the phone.

In time with a track made up of dial tones, he pretends to play it like a theremin.

He mimes out this Chaplin-esque routine where he wills the phone to ring with grand choreographed gestures. But no call.

Bored, Baby looks into the bedroom. Sees Mikey asleep under blankets. Sunlight streaming in.

Slowly, Baby starts to fall asleep. But as soon as his eyes close-

A high pitched whine rings, a young, seven year old Baby, not wearing headphones, sitting in the same apartment, same table.

The furnishings are different. Young Baby has bruises and visible stitches.

He looks up to see Mikey, about 10 years younger, offer him a peanut butter sandwich and mouth ‘ _you okay, G?_ ’.

Baby closes his eyes. The whine doesn’t leave.

Young Baby, unbruised, in the back seat of a car, headphones firmly on. A crying woman is driving. A man in the passenger seat is shouting furiously at her.

Baby sees the pick up truck they are about to rear end.

The whine reaches a peak.

Baby closes his eyes. The whine stops.

Baby opens his eyes. Gets out of his chair. He looks at one white iPod on the table. The original model from 2001. It is cracked and broken. Beyond repair.

‘ _Intro_ ’ by _The Herbaliser_ plays. He’s back in his bubble. Jacket on. Phones in. Stands by the front door in a hallway with mirrors on both sides.

 _The Herbaliser_ vocalises through Baby’s earphones, “He’s rough, he’s rugged, he’s red blooded, he’s romantic. He's full of shit.”

Baby takes his shades on and off, throwing looks into the mirrors, acting out tough expressions and badass poses. It’s clear Baby will not leave until the beat kicks in.

Baby throws open the door and exits.

To a funky groove, Baby struts down the stairwell, passing a rising exposed elevator on the way up. He doesn’t acknowledge the neighbor going up as he continues his tough act, sauntering down to the front door and on beat.

He struts into the street, as if he owns it. Baby jumps into a Blue Chevy Malibu. As the song ends, he rolls away.

 

*

 

It’s early morning and Baby is listening to ‘ _Let’s Go Away For Awhile_ ’ by _The Beach Boys_.

Baby has his shades on. Looking ahead. Listening to music.

He sits in a pleasant, but not very busy, old school diner. The decor is 50s retro and auto centric. Classic convertibles with happy smiling couples inside are painted everywhere. Baby sees the LA Times on the table. He flips it over so he doesn’t have to see the headline featuring ‘ _Robbery_ ’.

Baby looks out to see a couple in a car at the lights. They seem happy living the life Baby does not. They pull away, revealing the handsome, tattoo covered man from earlier. He’s outside the diner, wearing grey sweats, and still wearing earphones too, along with a huge winter jacket, only showing the tattoos on his hands. He appears to be singing as he walks into the diner and right into the kitchen.

Baby peers through the round glass of the kitchen doors as the man takes off his jacket. Still singing.

Baby takes out one ear of his earphones to hear what he’s singing. But he can only hear the diner music and a little snatch of his voice when the kitchen doors swing open.

For a brief moment, the planets align and Baby’s music, the diner muzak and his singing make glorious union.

“ _B-A-B-Y, Baby_.” The man sings, his voice smooth. Baby takes off his shades to look more clearly at this angel, but he disappears from view to finish getting changed. Baby stares at the empty space where he just was. Then -

“What can I get you this fine morning?”

Baby looks up in a daze. It’s him. He’s a waiter.

“Uh.” Baby has no words.

“Don’t worry if you need a minute. I got all the time in the world.” He gestures to the empty diner. One man at the counter and a bored waitress.

Baby stares at photos on the menu.

The tattooed man speaks again, “Y’know that’s the kids’ menu right?” He chuckles. It’s a glorious sound.

“Uh.” Baby says again. “Yeah.” He embarrassedly flips the menu to the other side.

“Hey don’t worry. I get it. It’s early. You need Joe to jump start your head?” The waiter leans on one leg casually.

“Joe?” Baby asks.

“Coffee.” The waiter raises his eyebrows, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. His hair is buzzed and dyed red at the sides, black through the mohawk. Baby wonders if the boss condones.

Baby is about to accept until he remembers he’s supposed to be drinking less coffee. “No, thank you.”

“Did you just get off?” The man asks, and Baby is slightly startled.

“Get off?”

The waiter smiles, “You just starting your day or did you just get off?”

“I guess.” Baby responds. The waiter smirks at his non-answers. Hearing himself talk more, Baby notes that his speech patterns are half schoolkid and half stoner.

“What do you do?”

Baby doesn’t hesitate, “I’m a driver.”

“Like a chauffeur?”

“A what?”

“You drive around important people?”

“I guess I do.” Baby wonders why the waiter is initiating a conversation with him. Maybe he’s bored.

“That’s pretty cool. Is it exciting?” The waiter raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Anyone I’d know?”

“I hope not.” Baby answers seriously.

“Well, aren’t you mysterious?” He smirks.

Baby shrugs, “I don’t know.”

The waiter’s brow furrows, “You don’t know?”

There’s a lull in the conversation, reducing the Diner to it’s tinny music.

“...Do you ever hit the road just for fun?” The waiter asks another question.

“Not so much anymore.”

The waiter sighs, “Me neither. Sometimes I’d like to just take off. Put some tunes on. Not know where I was going.”

Baby smiles, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A long pause. They drift off, lose themselves in the idea.

“Have you decided on anything yet?” The waiter suddenly cuts in.

Baby, not fully concentrating, staring at the man, “Yeah...you are so beautiful.” He blurts.

Baby sees the waiter’s cheeks turn a bright pink. He doesn’t know why he said it.

“Oh you just decided that? Well thank you, but I’m sure you don’t mean it.” He laughs awkwardly. Baby thinks it’s a beautiful sound.

Baby almost leaves it at that, until, “I do mean it,” He looks at the nametag on the waiter’s shirt, “Cassandra?” He looks back up at him, puzzled.

“Oh sorry!” He shakes his head. “This isn’t my badge. I only just started here as a…” He gestures at his uniform, indicating that he’s trying to remember the word ‘waiter’.

Baby finishes his sentence for him “Cassandra?”

The waiter takes a second to process Baby’s joke and then laughs again. “Yeah, as a ‘Cassandra’.” He smiles, charmed at Baby’s odd manner.

He walks off, yelling to Baby as he does, “Well, if you have any questions, holler!”

Baby stares as he walks off, tapping the backs of diner stools in time with the music as he goes. He sings a snatch of the song he was singing earlier in time with the muzak.

“ _B-A-B-Y, Baby_.”

Baby takes in this image of the waiter framed within the couples in convertible illustrations that adorn the walls.

“I have a question!” He shouts after him. The waiter turns around to face him.

“Uh huh?”

“What song are you singing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the new chapter! 
> 
> Please leave any feedback you have, it means a lot!


	4. Fresh Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby is Ray's fancy chauffeur for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not uploading for so long! I hope you enjoy!

Later on, Baby marches into a discount music store, the final resting place of physical media. He zeroes in on the right section, his brows furrowed, serious. He flips through jewel cases and finds what he’s looking for.

“Car-lah Tom-ass.” He mutters to himself. The CD cover reads _‘Gee Whiz: The Best Of Carla Thomas_ ’. He flips to the back cover, eyes scrolling down the track listings, ‘13. _B-A-B-Y_ ’.

He pays with a crisp new 50 dollar bill, and he’s out.

 

*

 

Around dusk, Baby is back at his apartment, track 13 of _‘Gee Whiz: The Best Of Carla Thomas_ ’ plays at full volume from the stereo. Baby stands in the middle of the room, lost in the track.

 

The lanky man in the wheelchair sits in the corner again, watching TV.

There’s a red light flashing on the phone.

Baby doesn’t see it at first, he mouths along with the song -

 

_‘And I can’t stop loving you.’_

 

Baby has started a slow, solo dance around the room. The phone light seems to be flashing in time with the track.

 

_‘And I won’t stop calling you.’_

 

The lanky man waves to Baby, alerts him to the phone. Baby presses pause on his music and picks up. It’s Ray.

“You didn’t answer. What’s up?’ He asks, Baby notices that his voice is cold.

Baby briefly glances at the ceiling, puzzled, “What’s up?”

“I don’t actually need to know. Here’s what’s up.”

Baby blocks out everything around him and focuses while Ray continues.

“I need you to drive me to an appointment and I need you to look smart.”

Baby looks over to a mirror through the open door of his bedroom. He’s wearing black jeans and an old Iron Maiden t-shirt. Before he can think about what clothes he’s got Ray speaks again.

“You got what it takes to be a chauffeur?”

“I think so.” He responds, playing it safe.

“You know what a chauffeur does?”

“Drives around important people.” He knows this one.

“You learn fast, kid. I like it.”

Very soon after, Baby and Ray are in a cavernous discount menswear store. It’s clear that it’s after hours and that Ray is very much in charge. He may be the owner as he has several same age lackeys helping Baby try out some smarter clothes.

He ends up with some black slim slacks, a red button-down, a black blazer, and even some smart shoes.

 

Baby admires his new suit. Ray gives in the nod, too.

 

*

 

It’s night and Baby drives Ray’s smart Merc up to an equally smart restaurant. There’s no music playing through the car’s speakers and Baby only has one earbud in.

It’s a final sitting for dinner, not too busy. Baby sees a booth full of serious looking guys through the window.

He wears his new suit, with the addition of some smart sunglasses and driver gloves. Ray sits in the back.

Baby pulls into a spot. A town car is parked alongside.

A valet opens the door. Ray leans over to Baby and whispers, “I won’t be long. In case of fire, there’s something in the glove.” And he’s gone.

Which leaves Baby staring at his gloves, intrigued. There’s a hidden weapon in his gloves? Like in ‘ _Iron Man’?_

He then realises Ray meant the glove compartment. He opens that and sees a pistol inside. He closes the glove compartment.

He looks over to the restaurant. Three well dressed toughs sit in a booth with their backs to the wall. They greet Ray with cordial hugs. They look like gangsters. Or ex-cops.

As they talk, Baby can only see the back of Ray’s head. Their conversation cannot be heard but it syncs perfectly with the music in Baby’s ears: a wonky sixties cover of _Mozart’s Piano Sonata in A Major._

The four men discuss something important. Through Baby’s eyes their hushed talk is scored by the piano music. A four bar melody represents one guy talking, the next four bars in a higher octave represent a second guy. The meeting continues in time with descending piano scales _._

A piece of paper is passed to Ray across the table, Baby starts to mouth along with what he imagines the conversation to be, mimicking the facial expressions of the three toughs.

As he fully commits to this silly charade the window of the adjacent car winds down and a poker faced chauffeur looks across at Baby acting like a goof.

Baby stops. The chauffeur then winds his window back up.

Then, in perfect sync with a celebratory end to the track Ray walks out of the front door of the restaurant.

Ray jumps in, slams the door on the closing note of the song.

“So I got us a job. You in?” He asks as he clicks his seatbelt in. Baby looks in the rearview to meet Ray’s hard gaze.

“Am I in?” He tries.

“It was a rhetorical question, Baby. You’re in.”


End file.
